


Vigil

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas falls. Dean thinks he might be ready for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tundraeternal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tundraeternal/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILY!

Cas hadn't said a word when he'd appeared at the bunker door, coat stained with dirt and eyes glittering with tears. Dean had stepped back, letting him in, and it had been Sam who'd unfrozen first, beckoning Cas forward with a " _glad you're okay, man,_ " and stepping around the silent and stock still Dean in the doorway to pull the unmoving not-an-angel-anymore towards the spare bedrooms. It had been Sam who showed him to the shower, handed him sweats and a t shirt and told him "if you need anything, just ask, okay?" 

 

Then he'd come back out to the hallway, arms crossed, and stared at Dean. Dean had stared back, still standing in the entryway, eyes full of panic and helplessness and something that made Sam's face soften and shake his head. "He needs you, Dean," had been all he'd said, and then he'd gone to his own room and shut the door with a soft thump.

 Somehow Dean's now found himself in the doorway to what even before tonight he'd thought of as Cas's room. There are shelves in one corner, with books on ancient cultures and artifacts they'd been unable to identify, but also plenty of room for anything else that an ex-angel might need. The walls' soothing blue hue and the ceiling's near-perfect replica of the July night sky had been the reasons Dean had chosen this room for its new purpose. Tiny pinpricks of pale paint, faithfully the slightest bit reddish or bluish or yellowish or bright white dot the deep navy background, darkness gradually lightening just a bit in the side nearest the door. 

There's a desk in one corner, stacked with paper and pads and pens and pastels, and tucked in a drawer is an old MacBook Dean had found in a yard sale in Tennessee. 

 There's also a tiny carved bird, wings outstretched, that he'd picked up in an antique store in Pennsylvania and an ornate dagger he'd recovered from a case in Oklahoma.  There's a box of sea glass from California tucked under an old cookbook of burger and pie recipes and a bundle of seeds an old woman had pressed into his hands after they'd rid her of the ghost of her long-dead aunt. (" _Plant these somewhere special,"_ she'd told him. _"Plant them somewhere that's home._ ") He can't say why he hasn't planted them yet in the path of weedy garden they'd found out back, but the time and the place just haven't felt quite right. And he can't say why he's left any of it here. Cas hasn't ever shown an inclination towards computers or birds or cooking or gardening, not that Dean's ever heard. But they're things that made him think about Cas, made him wonder where he was, if he was all right, and with a painful clench of his chest, whether he was even alive. 

It's been months since the angels fell, months of new and different kinds of cases, of strange men and women who don't quite know how to be human but who know they don't want the help of the former righteous man or the prophesized boy king of hell. So they've been making lists of them, typing them up and handing them to each one they find, so that they can contact each other. It's not much, but it's all the former angels will take from them. Dean wonders if they've kept the lists and gotten in touch, formed some sort of support group or something. 

He finally looks at the man in the bed, the one place in the room he's avoided looking so far. Cas looks almost peaceful in the dark, spread out under the covers in a ratty t shirt Dean recognizes as one of his own. What will Cas do, he wonders. Will he try and reach out to his fallen brethren? Would they even allow him back into their ranks?

Cas stirs slightly, pulling an arm around a pillow and holding it close. He makes a small noise, almost a whimper, and Dean nearly steps forward but holds himself back just in time. He's not even sure what he was stepping forward to do, if he's honest with himself. What do you do to comfort someone who's lost as much as Cas has? Where do you even start?

This room around them, this space lined with offerings and prayers to an angel that can no longer hear them-- that's the best Dean can do for now, he thinks. 

Or is it?

As he stands there, watching the angel who's stood by him through so much, a thought trickles in through the cracks in his defenses.

What if? He wonders.

What if Cas were human, another hunter, with whom he'd shared the amount of pain and joy and anguish and-- he hesitates, his brain stumbling, but he knows what it is, now. He knows why every time he's thought he'd lost Cas he'd fallen apart, why finding him in purgatory had been such an all-consuming goal, why one of the happiest memories he's had in the last few years was the day before he thought they were both about to die.

He should have realized it then, he thinks. Should have made the connection between the feeling in his chest and Cas's small smile, between his uncontrollable laughter and the glow of the brothel behind them. Should have seen it in the triangle of bare flesh at Cas's neck that he couldn't keep his eyes from glancing back to over and over.

He's stepping forward without even realizing, his feet carrying him steadily towards the bed, and he finds himself standing over it, hands rubbing his thighs and eyes on the messy hair curling at the back of Cas's neck. 

There's another small noise, another almost-whimper, and Dean feels like he's in a dream, drawn down to sit on the bed. He watches idly, almost detached, as his fingers reach output and gently stroke through Cas's hair.

It's softer than he'd imagined-- and it's news to him that he's imagined it at all-- and Cas moves towards him, rolling until it's his cheek against Dean's hand. He nuzzles against the pressure and Dean feels a spark run up his body from the pads of his fingers to somewhere in his stomach, something warm and bright curling there when Cas's eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and whisper, "Dean?" A smile drifts across his face and his eyes drift back shut, body relaxing as if he senses that he's safe, protected, loved.

And that's it, that's all Dean needs. He knows what to do for the first time in months, filled with a certainty he hasn't felt for years.

He toes off his boots and stands, shrugging off his jeans and flannel and smiling when pulling his hand away leaves Cas's forehead crumpled and mouth turned down, and lifts the blanket off of Cas's still form. Cas shivers a little, but stills when Dean's body presses in alongside his own.

At first Dean's not quite sure what to do. It'd seemed so easy for a moment, when Cas's eyes had met his and he'd felt that burst of clarity. But now he's laying in bed beside a former angel of the lord in  a fucking Metallica t shirt and he can feel the calm of earlier slipping away--

And then Cas turns, sliding against him, throwing an arm across his chest and slipping a leg between Dean's. he head falls in the crook of Dean's neck and Dean feels stubble against his jaw and suddenly, just like that, everything's all right. 

Dean closes his eyes and wraps Cas tightly in his arms, drawing him even closer. "I got you, Cas," he whispers, and feels the angel hum agreement into his collarbone. "I got you."


End file.
